


only want love (if it's torture)

by liesmyth



Category: Blank Space - Taylor Swift (Music Video)
Genre: Creeping Horror, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Gothic, Hand Feeding, Happy Halloween! in september, Sugar Mommy, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/pseuds/liesmyth
Summary: There is a house in the woods. In the house there is a woman, and she is beautiful. And she’s going to eat your heart.
Relationships: Taylor Swift/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23
Collections: We die afen and afen





	only want love (if it's torture)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madeinessos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeinessos/gifts).



There is a house in the woods. A mansion, large and white, standing imposingly at the centre of a well-kept lawn flanked by lines of trees. The gardens are perfectly kept and the staircase is made of marble. The fishes in the fountains swim around in circles day and night, and never need to be feed. The flowers never wilt. In the gardens, it is always summer.

There’s a woman in the house, and she is beautiful. She's been there as long as the house has, ageless and impeccable, pale and cold as porcelain. She holds out her hand and promises you the world. You are young and you’re reckless, and you think you know the rules of the game.

You take her hand. She smiles, staring you down. “I’ve been waiting for you.” She speaks through crimson-painted lips, and her eyes shine with the light of stars. Her nails are sharp. 

She kisses down your body and you shiver. Her skin is cold. She feeds you delicacies from her own hand, sugary confections and bite-sized chocolates, crumbs of gingerbread and pieces of fruit. Her hands are just as cold, her tongue is ice against your neck. Her heart would be cold, too, if she had one. 

She takes your hand and leads you through her wonderland. There are stables and flowerbeds, roses and green ivy climbing all over the southern wall. On the second floor is a long hallway covered in mirrors; you blink and the mirrors turn into portraits, a long line of faces. They’re old and dusty and covered in cobwebs, the only thing in the mansion that isn’t spotless. The golden frames are tarnished by ages and woodworms, the canvas spotted grey and brown, features unrecognisable. 

The hallway is long, longer than you would have believed from the outside; it feels as if it goes on for miles. You walk and you walk, footsteps echoing in the silence, and the farther you get the newer the frames look, but the portraits all have that same blurred look. You can’t make out the faces. 

At the end of the corridor there’s a door, and next to it is a large blank space on the wall. There’s a canvas next to it, and you don’t need to ask what it is for. You push the door and it opens, and you’re in the gardens again.

She’s there, waiting for you. “Darling.” Her smile is so sharp you could cut yourself on it. “Did you have a pleasant walk?” And then, “Did you miss me?”

There is only one answer she will accept.

Food appears on silver trays in the morning. It looks as delicious as it smells, but it tastes like nothing. You are ravenous at times, so much that your head goes dizzy with it, but the only foods that will sate your hunger are the sweet crumbs you taste on your lover’s lips and the red apples from the garden that she feeds you with her own hands. One day she gets a worried look, staring at you through narrowed eyes. 

“You look like you could use an apple,” she says brightly, although you just ate one. She feeds you one more apple with sweet-sticky fingers, then another. Then another. You beg off, and she considers it.

“Say please, darling.”

You oblige. She smiles, then ruffles your hair.

“Well done,” she says.

Her kisses leave cherry-red traces all over your skin. You rub at them but it doesn’t smudge; your thumb comes away wet. It smells like blood.

The next morning, you try to leave. You make it to the gates but they are locked with a silver chain. You run back inside to find your lover sipping from a crystal chalice filled with blood.

“You ate food from my hand.” She looks to her nails, painted as black as the night. “You can never leave, don’t you see?” And then, “Nod if you understand.”

You nod. What else can you do?


End file.
